上 Café (Tao Yuan)

Being told that there was a bar in his city he had never seen, El.Sin.Say’s curiosity finally got the best of him. Cleaning the house while no residents were inside, the hour glass was pitted against the weather, grains of sand transforming into cirrius clouds, raindrops preventing the motorcycle ride. Premature darkness cast a shadow from the neighboring building into his living room. Knowing that time was not an ally, showered the grit from a princess work – Cinderella.

A 10 year-old motorcycle with emphysema started loudly without hesitation, and yet it still smoked, tires screaming out the parking garage. The knees squeaked on pads like an old man attempting to give the youngsters the business on court, eventually displaying remnants of respect from his glory days.

For 15 minutes, Alzheimer’s had them holding hands, escorted up and down the same street looking for signs that didn’t exist. Now thirsty and fatigued, seeing two fat men outside of a watering hole, he gazed in, and in amazement, there was fully stocked bar staring back. through the key hole, bringing back memories.

The place – one that he had wanted to bring his wife to years before, but never got around to making the time. Letting it seep through clasped hands, sand of a broken hour glass, now melded tightly, turning into glass. Sharp memories cutting deep wounds in the palm – braille clear enough to force hands open and release handle bars.

Parked, saddle bag ready, bursting through the doors like a salon, room silenced and music stopped, an outsider, clearly a foreigner that wasn’t from this land, although the spur laden boots glided across the wood floor as if a mystical unicorn awaited him outside.

Grabbing a menu by the throat, integrity threatened, it began to spit words in mixed tongue, regurgitating everything it had accumulated in the establishment, trying to seek his approval. The bar tender rushed to its assistance, asking him to sit down and relax. A cold glass of water warranted a hot temper – a warm atmosphere.

Slightly at ease, but not relaxed, he was inclined to canvass the rest of the establishment prior to harnessing his sword and saddle bags. Windows to the world on almost every wall, well shaded, chandeliers, couches and wall paper, all dressed up as a respectable gentleman, or perhaps a quick talking conman with a sharp tongue.

Impelled, the 12 year Sherry Cask Scotsman, silenced his mouth, warmed his throat and pierced his stomach. The essence of the concoction impaled his spirit , satisfying the thirsty curiosity and yet created a hunger for the establishment.

Time stood still, but hours had passed. The duality of understanding that each moment increased the probability of not arriving at the next destination dry, while also ensuring that he would be driving dry, food was taken out before the clock struck 12 and he returned to his previous lowly form.